Nobody Want's to Be Lonely
by SiriusAllPunked
Summary: He lost one. He lost another. He is determined not to loose the next to come to him. And this five year old Countess, is jsut as determined to stay with him.


Me: Do I _look_ like I own anything?

Kat: Not in thoses baggy clothing and lusting over the story and the movie(that 2004 one rocked!) and music.

Me: You're right. I wish I owned this though...:frowns: Humm..:Pounds fists on computer desk angirly: I HATE Raoul! Why didn't Erik push him off the roof when he had the chance! He's too sweet and that cheasy, annoying fool who won't ever shut up...grr...he's like a freckin' Furbie...:shakes: spawns of torture...

Kat: Er...okay...um, how about you get on with the story?

Me: Huh? Oh, right! Yes...

Kat:Waits:

Me: ...

Kat: Start!

Me: Okay...here you all go...

(I realize that the Opera House was never used again after the fire, but I really needed this part so...)

Excuse me for the massive amount of spelling mistakes. You may know me if you read James and Lily(Harry Potter) fanfiction...I write angst stories...Well, on January 29th I watched Phantom of the Opera for the fifth time...I truely LOVE it. If you are also infactuated, feel free to e-mail me at or IM me at NervousParkSqirl.

PotO belongs to Gaston Leroux. Cheers to Andrew Loyed Webber and Joel Shumaucher (er...or however you spell his name) Cheers also to Gerard Butler and Emmy Rossum. They both deserve special awards! VERY good job, guys...Caio...

_You'll always be there_

_that face of some haunting kind_

_like words of a song_

_that are carved into my mind_

_I lust for darkness_

_while you're sunshine_

_consumes your soul_

_Yet not forget this_

_this angel that you_

_will never know_

**Man In the Shadows**

It was late at night when she woke. The five year old girl, daughter of the Countess and Vicount de Chagny, raced into the family living room to see her mother sewing quietly in her little arm chair.

"Amarian, my dear, why are you up at this hour?" her mother asked, gasping at the large Grandfather clock beside the wall.

The little girl raced into her mother's arms, who carefully caressed her cheek and kissed the top of her head.

"What is it, my love? You know you can tell me!" The girl snuggled closer to her mom and stayed silent. But when she eventually drew back she stared at her mother with watery eyes.

"He's all alone, mama! He's always alone. He just has himself..."Amarian said painfully. Her mother wrapped her arms around her daughter and smiled softly.

"It will be alright. Some people are better off alone." she said. Her daughter smiled sheepishly and clutched her mother's hand.

"Ma, I can't sleep." she said. Amarian's mother nodded knowingly and pointed to the floor beside her.

"Sit then, my darling. Papa won't be back for another hour or so, so keep me company." And then she went back to sewing. Amarian thought her mother loved to sew. She'd sew every night and on the long, hot summer afternoons or the cold harsh winter ones.

Amarian ploped down beside her mother and began to play with whisps of her brownish black hair. She was tired, but couldn't sleep. Not when she saw him all alone. Not when he had no one to play with. He'd said he prefered to be alone, but she didn't believe him. Where were his mommy or daddy? Didn't he have any friends or children? No, she thought promptly. All he had was that organ that he played. That's all he had in his deep, damp, darkness.

"_Softly, deftly, music shall caress you. Hear it, feel it. Secretly possess you. Open up your mind, let your fantasy's unwi-"_

"Amarian!" a strong, female voice cried out. Amarian jumped around to see her mother kneeling beside her with her arms on her daughter's shoulders.

"Amarian! How did you-how on Earth-" her mother choked. Amarian shook slightly.

"What is it, mama?" she asked in panic. Her mother usually didn't fret like this. Her mother never had a problem with her singing.

"Sweetie, sweetheart! How on Earth do you know that song? I havn't sung it-have I? Oh Amarian, where did you learn that song!" she asked, shaking her daughter slightly. Amarian felt tears well up in her eyes.

"He sang it to me. Friday night! When you and papa were at the Opera House and it was storming. I was scared, and you and papa weren't around. So I told him I was scared. He told me not to be and he sang that to me so I could sleep. What is it, mama? Why do you look like death?" she cried out. Her mother drew back slightly, still shivering. Amarian noticed her eyes had filled with unexpected tears.

"It is nothing, my dear. But, Amarian, how long have you heard him? How long has that man talked to you?'' she asked, her voice smothered in fear. It was the last thing she wanted. She prayed that her daughter would never have to undergo the power of his music. Wherever he was, she just wanted him to stay away from her family.

"For awhile, mama. He sings to me when I'm scared or lonely. He's really protected me. I only wish that I could do the favor back...Mama! Do you think we could go see him? He's awfully lonely. He wont admit it, but I can tell. Whenever I ask, he just tells me not to worry about it. Oh, please, oh please, mama! Can we?" she jumped at her mother, who had raised and lowered herself into her sitting chair. Her mother stared up at her in horror.

"No! Not at all! No. Now, go to bed, Amarian, dear. We have a busy day ahead of us.'' Amarian nodded obideantly and walked slowly to her bedroom. She closed her doors and slipped into bed into a deep slumber, but not before praying. Praying that that poor lonely soul would never have a reason to be lonely ever again.

Christine's breath was rapid. She couldn't believe what had just happened! Her own child. Her own flesh and blood. Amarian, sweet, innocent, Amarian, was being haunted by that man. Was this a way of getting back at her? Was this happening all because she didn't stay with him? No- he'd trown her out. He'd banished them and made them sware never to speak of their adventures to anyone. So, then why was he in touch with Amarian?

She walked into her and Raoul's bedroom and sat down at her vanity. She brushed out her long, dark locks of spiraling curls. Christine looked into the mirror and smiled. But as a flash of memory passed her eyes, she shoved her head down into her hands and cried out in pain.

"Why, oh, why? Why are you doing this? Just leave us alone! Please!" she whispered horsely. She felt her hands dampen as she cried. It was hard, and it hurt. But she couldn't let Amarian endure the same pain she had. Amarian was her's and Raoul's daughter...Speaking of Raoul, Christine looked up when she heard a soft knock at their bedroom door.

There, very dishy in his work suit, stood her one and only companion. Chrsitine smiled at her husband. Raoul noticed her tears and walked slowly to his wife, carefully running a finger across her tear-streaked cheeks.

"Oh, Christine. Why are you crying? What is it that bothers you, dear?" he asked softly. Christine smiled at this act of affection and gently pressed her head against his warm hands. His large, warm, comforting and friendly hands.

She contemplated on telling him about what Amarian had done. Yet she felt this urge to keep it quiet. She didn't, after all, want to worry Raoul. He still was shaken over the last encounter with the Phantom of the Opera.

Erik stared at the flat, cold, emptiness of his dungon in the subterrain of the Opera House. It had been almost six years since he had last been here. Six years of not seeing his true home. The place was emptier then he had remembered. He looked around and felt a jab in his heart when he noticed his music sheets ripped and torn and burnt from falling candles.

''I should have known." he muttered angirly. Of course, the mob had destroyed his home. They hated him. Everyone did. He didn't belong. He never had and never would.

He looked around the home and, to his relief, found a possession of his that he quite tresured. He picked up the little musical box with the monkey figure in Persian clothing and held it close to him.

His eyes grazed the room, a white, porcilen mask lied on the floor, unscratched. He leaned down to pick it up. It had been six years since he had worn one of these.

Suddenly, music filled his ears. He quickly ran to an opening to the theater, and stared up above as a large, familiar cast, began to prepare for a preformance.

"Now, one-two-three-four! One-two-three-four! Yes, yes. _Very_ good. You're getting very good at this, Meg, dear. The years have done you well." A woman that Erik very much respected said to her daughter. Young Meg smiled at her mother and stood beside her. Both stood near the vent at the floor, inwhich Erik had chosen for his peek hole.

"Thank you. I really have to say, this should be interesting. But-if you don't mind me saying-honestly-these past few years at the Opera House have been quite dull, without-well...you know..." she whispered. Madame Giry nodded solemly. Erik knew she more then anyone felt lonely without the Phantom haunting the walls of the Opera House. After all, she had saved the man once from a terrible state and now, he'd gone through something much worse then being beaten and taunted and laughed at.

"Yes, yes, Meg. Now, go on. Get back practicing. I will be back in a munite." she said shakily to her daughter. Meg nodded and went back to join her fellow dancers.

Madame Giry walked slowly backstage and down a fleeting pair of stairs. She entered a room, guided by candle-light and stared painfully at a picture of herself. The picture from so long ago. She had never shared this with anyone. Not even Meg, untill she had shown it to Raoul. She closed her eyes and felt the tears begin to well up.

:Flashback:

It might have been weird to see a seventeen year old girl walking alone down to the basement of the Opera House all alone, at midnight, but she didn't care. Tucked carefully in her nightgown pocket, she held a roll from dinner and a small sack of butter. It wasn't much, but it was all she could sneak out without being questioned.

She winced when the cold water touched her barefeet, but she lifted up the gown's skirt and walked slowly to the small room where her new friend lied.

There he was, back turned, and hunched over a rock and writing something on parchment by candlelight.

"Erik..." she whispered. The boy turned around and smiled. She walked closer to him and placed the roll and butter beside him.

"Sorry...but there wasn't much more I could have gotten." she said softly. He didn't seem to mind. He lightly began to chew on the bread.

"Thank you...'' she nodded. There was a moment of silence. But suddenly, she noticed something strange.

"Erik? Aren't you cold?" she asked. The boy looked up at her and shook his head. Since she had rescused him, the boy didn't seem to care much for covering his back. The young girl looked at his ripped flesh. It was red, and swollen and the deep red gashes and scars from the whips were still present. She feared that they would never go away.

" You know," she said slowly, trying to make conversation. But the boy only nodded and continude his writing manifest.

"You know," she repeated. "You never told me about your past other then the gypsies." Erik looked up at her and shrugged.

"There isn't much to tell." he said flatly. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She looked around the room, her eyes trailing every inch of what he had made out of the large rock. He still had dozons of the candles she had bought him, but other then that, there really wasn't much down here. Except for, of course, scattered music sheets.

She picked up one that laid before her feet and smiled as she read it.

"You wrote this...?" she asked, already knowing the answer. Erik looked up at her once again, eyed the paper, nodded, and went back to writing whatever it was he was writing.

"It sounds beautiful. What is it about?" His songs were usually deep and thoughtful. He wrote beautiful music. Sometimes, when he wasn't looking, she'd confiscate a few parchments of his scribbled down lyrics and take them to her dorm to read when she was alone or scared or angered. His music always had a way of calming her down.

"It's about being alone." he said softly. She looked up at him and felt her eyes water. She jumped from her seat and hugged him close. She felt him tense as she gently caressed his cheek. The younger boy didn't seem to good with affection.

"Oh, Erik! You're not alone. So long as I am here, you will always have someone. Remember that!" she said firmly. His breathing started to become normal again, and she released him.

"Here, you may have to hide from the world. But in your music, you can truely be yourself. I wish I had that power. But I am forced to be myself with everyone else. Your music is like your sanctuary, isn't it?"

"Just as dance is yours." he added. She laughed and blushed.

"Oh, but I shall never succeed in dance as you have in music. Nor shall I ever in life, as you have. There is so much you are capable of, Erik. Even though you may not be able to walk the streets without reactions dosen't mean you are less of a human. In fact, you are so much more. Never have I seen a man, let alone a fifteen year old boy, capable of writing beautiful music, building themself a hand made home and comforting himself when he is alone. There is so much to you, Erik. So don't ever hate yourself. You are already so much more then anyone up there." she said.

Erik looked at her. His short, dark hair, covered his eyes, but he could still perfectly see his seventeen year old rescuer.

She sighed and stood up.

"I better be going. I'll try and visit tomarrow night. Untill then...goodbye, Erik." He nodded and she scampered off, hurring through the cold water and back up the stairs. He felt a small smile appear upon his face.

:End flash back:

Madame Giry shook slightly and stared at a paper that she had folded in her hand. She remembered she had taken this song from him that night.

"Erik...I've kept my promise. You're still not alone." she whispered.

He had plummeted off the perch inwhich he stood at, and wadded in the waist deep, ice cold water that protected his home. What was the use of his boat? He'd grown accustomed to being numb and unfeeling. After six long years of forcing himself to being nothing but a lost, content soul, he didn't seem to mind furthering his lonely state.

So, Meg Giry, the sweet and kind daughter of someone who truely cared for him, wanted the Phantom back? But what would those two idiots think of it? Oh yes, Monsuier Firmin and Andre. It would be a blast to torment them once again. Never defy the power of a lone soldier. Never.

Then, Erik did something he hadn't done in a very long time. He smiled.

**Okay, so that's my first PotO story...Just so you know...I HATE Raoul...Hate can be such a strong, beautiful word...Hoped you liked it...:smiles:**


End file.
